A Collection of Tumblr-inspired Vignettes
by Kamiki77
Summary: A Collection of Tumblr-inspired Vignettes I have been soliciting short vignette prompts from the Stucky fans on Tumblr. This is a collection of short, one-short ficlets.
1. Milk Bottles

"Well, you didn't throw up at least?" Bucky said with a small grin, elbowing his friend in the side as they walked away from the rickety wooden roller coaster.

Steve scoffed, running a hand through his short blonde hair, his gait strong and steady but still feeling shaken from coming off the coaster. While his new body was certainly built for rumbles and falls, it didn't make it any easier. He had been thrown around and tossed about and fallen out of more planes than he cared to already, and he still didn't exactly see the point of doing it for fun. But at least it made Bucky smile and he was thoroughly enjoying spending the day with his old friend.

They were both incognito; Steve in his navy blue hoodie and Bucky with his hair tied into a messy ponytail and a black baseball cap shoved lowed on his head. However, in exchange for Steve riding the Cyclone again, he had agreed to wear one of Steve's old "Captain America" long sleeved t-shirts. It was worth it, just for the look on his face.

Bucky was lost in his head soon after, however; his eyes washing over the throngs of children as they ran around - waist-height and sticky with cotton candy and hotdog condiments. It was any particular thing; but the whole picture was resonating deep in his mind and heart; memories of sights and sounds and tastes from the fair. This was always such a treat for him; Steve and Bucky saving their allowance for weeks and spending hours carefully mapping out where each and every penny would go: what games they would play and what food they eat and what rides they would ride and…

He was jerked out of memory lane by Steve nudging him towards a bottle toss. "Hey, Bucky!" he called - the childlike sparkle in his eyes was enough to lift Bucky's spirits. The blonde man dug in his pocket and pulled out a few crumbled ones, handing it off to the carnival jockey and picking up the beanbag. He tossed the soft and floppy bag in his hand, before handing it to Bucky. "Go on," he said with a grin. "Knock over the milk bottles."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Want me to win you a prize?" he said with a teasing grin. He just remembered it wouldn't be the first time.

Stepping up to the line, his expression went sober as he felt the weight in his hands and calculated the distance between them and the bottles and tossed the bag their way. His eyes flashed with anger as the bad hit dead and center between the stacked milk bottles, but it didn't budge. The weighted things barely budged under the throw, despite how good the aim. "What a scam," he growled, and picked up the second bag.

There was a twinkle in Steve's eye as he looked around quickly, then leaned in and whispered something in Bucky's ear. Bucky's eyes darkened and in a split second there was a sound of an electric whirring and then seemingly instantly all three of the weighted milk bottles clattered to the ground as he hurled the beanbag with his left arm with an alarming force.

Steve clapped his hands over his mouth in surprise, and trying to suppress a laugh as several people around began clapping. Bucky blinked, surprised at himself, and sheepishly accepted the giant stuffed giraffe that came as the prize.

Steve couldn't believe it worked…all he had done was tell him what his mission was. He shouldn't have manipulated him like that, but, he just looked too damn cute walking around the fair with that five foot tall purple and pink giraffe toy.


	2. Clense

Steve didn't want to push him. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask him, but for now, he was content that Bucky was here at all. He wasn't speaking much, spending large amounts of time just sitting on the couch, lost in his own head.

He didn't want to sleep; though Steve could tell he needed to. His eyes were boodshot, with dark bags under his eyes. He also smelled like he hadn't had a bath…well, probably sense he came out of cryo last. "Hey," he said gently, trying to bring it up slowly. "Why don't you borrow my shower and clean yourself up a bit? You'll feel better."

Bucky's eyes darted over to him, but his shoulders tensed up. He didn't explicitly say no, but the thought didn't appeal to him at all. When Bucky had been on missions as The Soldier, he didn't sleep or bathe until the job was done; then when he would come back he would be stripped and hosed off hastily with cold water in the laboratory chemical shower. Sometimes they would shave his beard when his stubble got in the way of his face mask.

Steve could pick up on Bucky's hesitation, and tried to offer him a supportive smile. "C'mon," he said, with a gentle but prodding tone. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder and encouraged him to come with him to Steve's bathroom. Bucky followed, uneasy but obeying.

Carefully and slowly, Steve undressed Bucky. His hands were shaking, and he was careful to keep looking at Bucky to make sure he was okay with every move. It was the first time Steve got a good luck at his old friend; bare and naked before him he let his eyes take inventory of the deep scars that waved across his skin. They spidered out from metal arm, and slashed across his left legs and thighs. He wondered if those were products of the fall; because like himself he was hard to scar after the serum with his healing abilities.

Steve could feel the tension in his muscles as Bucky was naked, waiting to be shoved into the shower and rinsed. The blonde man nodded his head reassuringly and went over to his garden tub instead, turning on the water and fiddling with the controls until he found a warm but comfortable temperature.

He looked back to Bucky, nodding invitingly.

Bucky's eyes went to the water pooling in the tub, watching the steam waft off the water in the cool bathroom. A frown tugged at the side of his mouth, his skin breaking out in goosepimples. He hadn't had a warm bath or shower since before he was deployed to war; a distant and alien memory.

Steve gently guided him to the water, and Bucky's eyes went wide in surprise as he stepped into the warm water. He hated the cold water in the showers; it reminded him of the Ice. But this, well….this was nice. He exhaled and sank into the tub, surprised by how comforting and warm the lapping water was over his skin.

Steve was patient and kind; having retrieved soap and a washrag from his linen closet. He gently scrubbed away years worth of grime and blood and sweat. Bucky let him, and even on occasion would grant Steve the pleasure of a small, hesitant smile. Each one he was sure to return back with his all-star, heart melting smile of his own.

Bucky let Steve shave him; not having bothered to done so himself in a long time, his mask long forgotten. Steve felt like some sort of sculpter; carving out his old friend out of his dirty, broken man that had landed on his doorstep.

Finally, Steve gently washed his hair; long and strangly and full of knots. It was the final "touch" to his Bucky sculpture. He kneeled by the rub and let his strong, sure fingers massage Bucky's scalp, leaving his dark hair looking slicked back against his skull, once it was rinsed.

It was him. For the first time, all the little ghosts of doubt were chased out of his mind. Steve was looking down at his best friend; looking the most like he remembered him since he saw him last. He smiled, and caught himself blinking back tears. "Hey Bucky," he found himself saying.

Bucky, his eyes having closed at some point opened, looking straight into Steve's crystal clear blue ones. "Hey Steve-o," he said, and let a smile settle onto his lips.

For the first time in forever…. Bucky was home.


	3. Another Round

"You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I'm following him."

Bucky was jealous of Steve in almost every way possible. Though Bucky had already seen more war than Steve, Steve was a master at it. A master tactician in addition to his - literally - perfect physical prowess. He also had a drive and sense of optimism that was hard to find in the trenches; even to the most dedicated and patriotic of soldiers.

Bucky knocked back another shot, letting his alcohol muddled mind drift to some of his darker and more secret recesses. His eyes were half-lidded, lazily gazing up and down the Captain looking especially sharp in his army browns.

Peggy.

Peggy was here in her perfect red dress looking like some kind of perfect….thing.

Bucky's expression darkened as she ignored him; blatantly and obviously and her eyes focused squarely on Steve. His Steve.

He pretended he was angry that she didn't notice him. That's what he always did at bars anyway; pretended. He had to - having grown up in the closest thing to a gay neighborhood in Brooklyn; two young men living together. One of them small and blonde and pretty and artsy - overcompensation was a defense mechanism. Always chase the skirts, and maybe the bullies wouldn't notice that he was always looking over his shoulder at his friend.

But the whiskey was getting to him. He didn't usually drink this much; too much was on the line. He had to stay sharp so he could jump into a fight if someone tried to start something with Steve. He couldn't risk losing his job at the docks, either… his meager pay paid the rent for both of them usually.

But fuck it - this was war. Bucky had gotten a letter earlier that day, detailing how some of guys he had become friends with in Basic had died. He couldn't even seem to muster the energy to cry for them; all he could think about was how he would feel if that letter had said a different name: Steven G. Rogers.

"Have another round," Bucky called to Steve after the red dress had left. He pounded his finger down on the bar and signaled to the barkeeper. Steve should be feeling it by now, too, right? Hell, back in the old days half a beer would be enough to have Steve giggling like an idiot.

But what Bucky didn't know was that Steve couldn't get drunk. Steve knew this, but he accepted Bucky's offer anyway. It was a fun juxtaposition; he wasn't used to watching Bucky be the one losing his common sense while he stayed sober. Surprisingly, he kind of liked it.

It was many hours later before they were stumbling out of the bar. Bucky could barely stand, but Steve was there to help him out. Though, this was also several hours into Bucky's plan to seduce Steve. Surprising his taller blonde friend, Bucky hastily pulled Steve into the alley behind the bar and pushed him up against the brick.

"Bucky?" he asked, surprised. He swallowed nervously - his very acute and sober mind having picked up several drinks ago that Bucky seemed to be trying to get him drunk; trying to get his walls to come down. Looking at him, letting his hands rest of his knees. He had seen this dance before - Bucky used it to pick up girls.

Bucky leaned against Steve and pressed his lips against Steve's firmly - throwing all caution into the wind. He could die tomorrow - or worse - Steve could die tomorrow and Bucky wasn't at the state of mind to deal with that reality right now.

Steve was surprised, his clear blue eyes widening for a moment before he relaxed a bit into the kiss. His eyes slipped close and his arms came up to gently cradle Bucky's elbows. He could taste the burn of the whiskey on Bucky's tongue as it pressed along his lips hungrily. Despite his better judgements, Steve granted it entrance into his mouth, letting his jaw fall open.

For several minutes, Steve convinced himself that maybe Erskine was wrong - maybe he was wrong and he was drunk and that's why he wasn't pulling away from Bucky's drunk, wet, intoxicating kisses. That would be the only reasonable explanation why he was leaning into his body and feeling it respond; his arms coming up to cradle Bucky's head and allowing his fingers to weave through his thick brown hair.

But when Bucky's shaky hands began to fumble with Steve's belt buckle, he couldn't lie to himself any longer. He reluctantly pulled away, breaking the kiss and stilling Bucky's hands with his own.

"Please…" Bucky's warm and husky plea against the soft skin of Steve's neck was almost enough for Steve to abort his plan; but of course he couldn't. He choked back a whimper of disappointment shaking his head. He just couldn't do it.

"Bucky, you're drunk," he finally mustered to say.

Bucky laughed. "I know. So are you…"

Steve winced with guilt. He wasn't, not even close. But man, he surely wished he was; wished he was drunk enough to throw his inhibitions in the wind and succumb to his desires. Drunk enough not to know that this was wrong and stupid and dangerous - especially right here in the alleyway. Drunk enough to pretend he didn't know exactly where this was going…

"No, Buck," he said softly, pushing him away as gently as he could muster. "I'm sorry, but you're not in any state to…" he couldn't finish the sentence, his face flushing.

"Fuck, Steve, I'm sorry," Bucky said, trying to sober himself up by rubbing his hands over his face. "Fuck… what was I… I mean, I…" panic was started to slip in, as he seemed to realize the array of consequences he may have just opened up.

"Don't worry about it!" Steve said, plastering on his supportive and optimistic friend-face. He squeezed Bucky's shoulder and patted him firmly on the back, trying to communicate that he wasn't going to be weird about this.

Right?

He let Bucky lean against him and they stumbled their way back. Tomorrow morning was going to bring one hell of a hangover; and they had a train to catch. Maybe… maybe they could revisit this later. After they had talked. After they were both sober and Steve had a chance to sort through all the conflicting and exciting emotions surging through him.

Tomorrow. After the mission.

After the train.


	4. Four

Four. Who buys anyone four roses?

Steve Rogers paced outside the florists shop, looking down at the four beautiful red roses, wrapped into pretty paper and tied with a bow. He had really only been able to afford three, but the florist had taken pity on the tiny shrimp of a man and gave him four.

He thought about tossing them into garbage as he walked back to their tiny Brooklyn apartment, his insecurity causing his weak heart to rattle against his ribcage. But he couldn't bring himself to do it; that was several weeks worth of sketches and one newspaper advertisement commission he had skimped and saved for.

When Steve got home, Bucky wasn't home yet. They didn't have a vase, so he got out a sturdy waterglass and put the roses in, delicately arranging them until his artists' eye was happy. He scrabbled "For Bucky" on a scap of paper and left them in the kitchen as he headed towards the small living room to read.

It was nearly dark when Bucky came home. His overshirt was slung over his shoulder, his body glistening with sweat and his undershirt covered in grime. "I'm home, Steve-O," he called, kicking off his heavy boots as he came in through the kitchen door. His eyes caught sight of the red roses and he blinked, surprised. He grabbed them by the stems and walked the embarrassingly small amount of paces it took to get from the kitchen to the living room. "What are the hell are these?" he asked.

Steve looked up from his sketchbook, his heart pounding in his throat. "They're roses."

"No shit," Bucky teased, his lop sided grin spreading over his face. "Steve, I know how much these cost, whatdidya go and buy these for?" he asked, coming over.

Steve shrugged, his face burning. Did we make the wrong choice? That money could have gone to food or maybe even a new sketchpad or… "I don't know," he muttered. "I thought since, you know, we've kind of been…" he flustered so damn easily. "I just thought maybe it was the right thing to do but I mean I know its different with us since well you're not a dame and all and…."

Bucky let Steve stutter and ramble on, leaning against the door frame. When he couldn't take it anymore, he prowled over. He grabbed Steve's small frame and hefted him up into his arms with one fell swoop, his muscular arms flexing as he lifted him up. Steve wrapped his legs around his waist by instinct, putting his hands on Bucky's shoulders to steady himself.

"Ya punk," Bucky teased, before pressing his mouse against Steve's enthusiastically. "They're beautiful."


	5. Jump

It had been years since Steve and Bucky saw each other on the bridge. As much as Steve wanted it be; it wasn't Bucky for a very long while. In a perfect world, they would have seen each other and they would have instantly been back like it was before the war: best friends.

But of course, it wasn't. Steve was a different person; he was no longer that skinny kid from Brooklyn who was idealistic to a fault and didn't know how to back down from a back-ally fight. Now he was Captain America: the man from the past who had to navigate through cloak-and-dagger politics and fight aliens.

Bucky had to remember; and everything he remembered wasn't pretty. Along with the memories of Coney Island and spaghetti dinners and going to life drawing classes came the horrors of war; torture, rape, deceit at the tentacles of Hydra.

And murder.

Murders conducted by him; he couldn't even hide behind the banner of war. Shooting someone in front of their family as they ate dinner with a high-caliber rifle three buildings away isn't war, no matter how to try to spin it.

The first year was hell.

The second year was better.

By the third year, Bucky was more or less the man he once was. He would never be the same; like a shattered vase glued back together he knew there would always be jagged edges and missing pieces; but overall he could get through most nights without nightmares and was beginning to enjoy life again.

And think about things. Many things - there was a lot of darkness in his soul he had to deal with. Something that had hit him rather unexpectedly were his feelings for Steve. A dark secret he had kept in him since he was a boy; treasured but hidden from the world. But the world was different now… he had seen in movies and TV and even with couples walking down the street…people like him. People like him who didn't have to chase skirts a pretend to be something they're not.

But would Steve understand? He wasn't the insecure little boy he once was; back when Bucky had fallen in love with him. He could have anyone in the world he wanted. Would he accept him? He found it hard to believe he wouldn't; but that wasn't the real question, was it?

No, he knew it was more complicated than that. Bucky didn't want to tell Steve this hidden, forbidden secret just so he knew. He knew it he wanted Steve to say that he knew all along, and that he wanted him just as bad, and of course he was just waiting for him to come around.

Hope. Now that was a feeling Bucky wasn't used to. He didn't know how he liked it, that fluttering in his chest. It wasn't dissimilar from standing on the edge of tall building, willing yourself to jump.

But he had jumped several times before, why wait now?


	6. Sketches

Bucky tore through the drawers and cabinets of their tiny Brooklyn flat, looking for a damned piece of paper. He cursed to himself, slamming the last drawer shut. Well fuck, if he didn't get his ass down to the post office by three then Caroline was going to go ballistic. He has promised her he would write after her trip up to New York to visit colleges, and seeing that her father has seemed like a really serious kind of guy, at the very least he needed to put up appearances at least for a while.

He put his hands in his pocket and pulled out his wallet; a thin leather scrap that was barely holding together at the seems. He had a few dollars in there, but they haven't bought groceries in two weeks. He sighed and placed his hands on his hips, his eyes darting to the bedroom door. Steve would have a piece of paper he could borrow, surely. He could rip one out of one of his sketchbooks - carefully - and make it up to him later.

Steve wasn't around - probably making his rounds around time looking for a job. He slipped into the tiny bedroom; two threadbare cots on either side and a small dresser nestled between them. The top two drawers were his, the bottom two were Steve's. He went over and pulled open the drawers, quickly shuffling through Steve's precious few shirts and pants. There were a few art supplies; whittled down pencils and gummed up erasers, but no sketchbooks. Damn.

He was on his way outta the room when something caught his eye; sticking out between the thin mattress and cot springs was the leather corner of a book. Perhaps…

Bucky pulled out the foot and flipped it open. Bullseye. This was definitely one of Steve's sketchbooks - the first pages were full of quick gestural sketches of nudes. Figures, the boy probably hadn't ever see a dirty picture in his life but he sure did like to go those free life drawing classes they had at the colleges sometimes. Hell, when there would be naked women there he would go along with him sometimes.

But as he flipped through the book looking for a blank page, something caught his eye. Was that what he thought it was? He sat down on the cot and let the book fall open on his lap, revealing some very detailed sketches of naked men. These were different than the quick gestural life sketches he had seem him do before. No, there was a deliberateness to these - they had such a fine detail to every fold, hair, and dip in their musculature. And perhaps most notably… most of them were at full attention in their neither-regions.

Common decency should have led Bucky to slam the notebook shut and shove it back from where he found it. But an electric buzz of excitement tingled down his spine as he flipped another page. There was such a curiosity and bafflement to this clandestine book. Could Steve - his Steve - had really drawn these? It seemed too surreal to believe; the boy would fluster if a girl with a short skirt smiled at him and now…these.

As the pages went on, the sketches got more explicit. First the men in the pictures would be stroking their erect cocks with study, strong hands. Then a close up on a man's lips; and stubble being dragged over someone's sculpted thigh.

Like the artist (….Steve!) was getting more secure with what he liked, and what he was drawing, the men in the pictures began to interact. These mostly faceless, David-esque men were holding one another; kissing. Soon, as the pages progressed, they were inside each other. A larger man was taking a smaller, less muscular one from behind. Fingers pressed into the skin of his hips; hands tangled into the blankets in such a way it almost looked as if he was grasping on to the paper itself.

Next page, a man lay on his back with his thighs open, his lover nestled between them. His face was buried in his shoulder, their bodies coming together with a passion that could even be felt through the strokes in the graphite.

Next page, a man head was thoroughly engaged in the lap of his partner, fingers weaving through hair and cheeks distended from the activities presented.

Bucky was suddenly aware that the temperature in the room seemed to skyrocket. A warm flush was spreading over his body, and his shaky hands finally closed to the book as he ran a hand through his damp, brown curls. He swallowed, his mouth feeling like cotton as she stood up, blushing even deeper as his noticed how well his body seemed to have responded to the forbidden images he had seen. Caroline was long forgotten as Bucky shoved the sketchbook back under the bed. Bucky was flabbergasted that his little skinny Steve could even imagine such things… much less actually take the time and concentration to immortalize them on paper.

But then… then he was a little angry. It wasn't like the idea hadn't crossed his mind before. They lived in one of those neighborhoods and Steve was small and artsy and all. It wasn't like he hadn't been called queer a million times before. Or even that Bucky might have even suspected so himself. But dammit, if that was the case, why didn't Steve say anything? I mean, he was his best, wasn't he?

How was he supposed to protect the little bastard if he wasn't honest with him?

He took a deep breath and stormed out of the room; he needed a drink.

((Based loosely off a scene mentioned in Bodies Studies, by Ark. Perhaps a psuedo-prequel, if you will :))

Check it out here:

/works/596718


	7. Final Mission (Part One)

Notes: This is an alternate turn of events in CATWS, with Captain American the gang getting away from the STRIKE team after the battle on the bridge. Steve has immediately gone looking for Bucky on his own, leaving Natasha, Sam, and Maria to fix the mess with Hydra/SHIELD

Tumblr prompt: Hey my name is Christine and I was wondering if u'd write a fanfic for my cousin (she's kinda shy u'know?) She's my age and she kinda ships the whole Bucky!Whump, Abuse, hurt/comfort, the whole deal... so I was wondering if u could write a fic about Steve finding Bucky in a basement maybe the Bank Vault or Pierce's House, he's in a bad way and Steve kinda has to help him recover?

Okay so I'm breaking this prompt into 2-Parts because I wasn't sure if the requestor really wanted the Hydra trashy precursor or not - but I've been looking for a good excuse to get some dirty Bucky/Alexander action going on.

The soldier's eyes fluttered open. His brain was fuzzy, like he had been asleep for a very long time. That's how it always was, after the wipes. Lost in time, not knowing how long he had been out since his last mission. It could have been an hour ago, or it could have been ten years. There were only a few signs he could count on to try and figure it out.

He wasn't cold. When he had been asleep for a significantly long time, it took hours, sometimes days, before the chill lifted off his flesh.

He was sore. Though he healed faster than most men, the Soldier could use the ache in his bones and the color of the bruises on his skin to judge when he was last awake. Apparently, it hadn't been very long since his last mission.

That was unusual. They never wiped him more than they had to; there were always things he would forget that he wasn't supposed to; how to load the newest rifle in his arsenal or a chokehold variation. Which of his handlers preferred complete silence and which preferred abject and verbal obedience. Re-learning things was hard; not because he had to learn them again but because he never knew what he had forgotten until he was being punished.

But, in general, the wipes were significantly selective. He didn't remember specifics - locations, most people, his past, his name. But he did remember things. How to do things. How to use a weapon and how to fight and how the read a map and fly and plane and a million more. He also knew his handlers. They were imprinted on him; only one at a time. He knew there were others, but he didn't know who they were anymore.

His current handler, Alexander Pierce, was there waiting for him. He was sitting on a chair, backward, his chin resting on his hands as he waited for his asset to awaken. A few other men stood around, holding weapons. He flinched voluntarily but didn't attack; he had no mission. His cold eyes leveled on Pierce. He did not look happy. Despite his best efforts, the soldier felt a tightening in his chest; when Pierce was angry it usually was taken out on him in some way. He couldn't recall what he may have done to make him unhappy, and he dared not show the apprehension on his face. The slight clench of his jaw was the only outward sign.

"You have a new mission," he said evenly. "It will be your final one."

The soldier's brows creased ever so slightly. What did that mean? Was he going back into the ice forever? Was it a suicide mission? Would he be killed to tie up loose ends? Was he going to be set free? It wasn't that the soldier didn't have emotions. He had fears and apprehensions. But his ability (and desire) to express them had been beaten out of him, quite literally. He was a ghost; no identity to speak up and only a fragile handle on his own emotional state. He knew nothing of the world out there; nothing further than Alexander Pierce and his missions.

He didn't react to Pierce's declaration. He just waited for his mission; the outcome was irrelevant.

"One target. Highest level. You will do anything necessary to end him. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he answered. He had asked direct question so he would give a direct answer.  
Pierce got up to go over to his briefcase. There would be a tablet in there, loaded especially for this particular mission. It would open only for the Soldier's retinal scan, and it would contain the dossier of the target, the inventory of weapons and men that would be at his disposal, maps, diagrams, blueprints, and megabytes of other relevant information he would need to be the most effective killing machine he could be.

"You have five hours." The asset blinked, surprised. That was an extremely short timetable. But he stayed silent, his muscles tensing and his arm coming alive with a robotic whirr.

Pierce retrieved the electronic tablet from his briefcase, but found himself pausing. "Rumlow, leave us for a few." Brock Rumlow broke his statuesque post, looking way more offended than any honorable soldier should be. The asset found his eyes flickering over to him, judging him. Yet, part of it was envy; the asset knew Pierce wouldn't punish him for speaking out of turn. He wouldn't get slapped across the face, or forced to lick the bottom of Pierce's shoe, or anything like that. That kind of punishment was reserved only for him.

"Sir?" he asked, obviously either not understanding why, or knowing exactly why and was uncomfortable with the notion.

"You heard me," Pierce said authoritatively, setting the digital mark file on a table. "I'll let you know when I'm finished."

Rumlow's face was creased with disgust (maybe? Or was it something more subtle? Disappointment? Jealously?), but with a grunt and jerk of his head, he headed towards the heavy vaulted door, his men in steady step behind him.

Pierce waited for the heavy doors to close, and for him to hear the secure clank of the lock. The tablet with the mission assignment was still in his hands, and he tumbled it between them for a few moments before setting it down on a stainless steel table. "Why don't you come down from there," he said to the soldier, who hadn't moved from the device they used to strap him down; though he had been unrestrained since before he had become conscious again. He did as he was told, hopping off the examination chair and standing on his own two feet. His muscles protested, but he did his best to hold in his wince. Showing pain was showing weakness.

"Look at you," Pierce said, slowly stalking towards him with a menacing patience. He sounded disgusted, but the soldier did exactly as he was told, looking down over himself. "You're filthy."

It was true; the asset was generally only cleaned before they put him back into the ice. They would hose him off with cold water - only scrubbing his skin in the areas that were particularly discolored. They would shave him, sometimes, when the stubble on his face was long enough to cause the mask to chafe and risk not fitting properly.

But today, further corroborating his theory that he was wiped between missions without going into cryo, he was looking rather ragged. His skin still glistened with a sheen of sweat, several strands of his thick hair plastered to his forehead. His stubble was long enough to feel rough and uncomfortable, and he has smears of blood and dirt smudged over his body. A few of the worst bruises still discolored his skin in patches; they would quickly fade, but their shadows of green and purple will visible for now.

But he didn't say anything. He didn't agree or disagree with Pierce's statement, because it wasn't a question. The asset only spoke when asked directly, unless told otherwise. He just stood there, his blue grey eyes coming back up to meet the older man's.

"And I think you like it that way," Pierce added, slowly prowling his way closer.

Again, it wasn't a question, so the soldier didn't answer. He didn't really have an opinion on the matter; even when he was 'clean' he was far from what most people would consider so. He hadn't had a proper shower or bath for over 70 years.

Pierce sat heavily on a chair, leaning back into it, like a king lounging in his throne. "On your knees, soldier," he commanded cooly, pointing to the area of the floor between his feet.

He did so without hesitation. The heavy military knee pads made a satisfying scrape over the concrete floor of the bank vault as he settled in. He kept his arms by his side, but looked up to the looming figure with an expectant glare, and the ever-so-slightest desire rising in his chest to remedy whatever disappointment in the man he had stirred. He didn't understand why Pierce being unhappy with him caused this internal turmoil, but he somehow seemed to know he was on the path to making up for it.

Pierce reached down and unfastened his belt buckle, pulling out his half-erect cock. His eyes went down the asset, expecting. "You know what to do," he said simply, as if they had done this a thousand times before.

Perhaps they had.

The soldier couldn't remember the specifics, but he did indeed know exactly what was expected of him. He rested his hands on the top of Pierces thighs and leaned forward, easily taking the still only partially erect flesh completely into his mouth, sucking delicately on the skin and letting his tongue play around the tip. He immediately felt the relation from Pierce, who let his head drop back.

Something twisted deep in the soldier's stomach; a nagging war of conflicting emotions that he didn't exactly know how to name. The act itself he knew how to do. Like disassembling a rifle or driving a car; those deep rooted common knowledges that felt like second nature as if he had been doing it his whole life.

But there was more. This obviously wasn't something he was doing for a mission; this was something he was doing for Pierce. He began to bob his head up and down over the older man's rapidly stiffening member, letting his cheeks hollow out and looking up at him, watching, as the man gave a satisfied sounding moan. His little murmurs of pleasure both egged the soldier on, and also caused his brain to cloud with a nagging, lingering unpleasant emotion.

He thinks it might be shame.

Pierce's hands are in his hair, roughly tangling into his brunet strands and pushing him harder down onto his cock. The soldier felt the end of him hit the back of his throat and he chocked back his gag reflex - he knew that's what Pierce would have wanted. It was something he knew how to do through endless practice, and the deep, darker side of him grew heavier as he wondered silently how exactly he had been given so much practice in order to master this.

"Yes, like that, soldier," Pierce growled low in his throat, pushing the asset harder down onto him still. His nose was grinding against Pierce's public bone as he struggled to pull in air from his nostrils while simultaneously trying to keep his throat swallowing and not choking. Was he usually this rough? The soldier had no way of knowing for sure, but he definitely seemed out of his comfort zone as he struggled to breath around the vicious assault on his mouth. Pierce's hips had begun to jerk upwards on the downstroke, thrusting into his mouth while his hands forced his head hard and fast down onto him.

Perhaps this was different, because Pierce came in a time that seemed faster than normal for the struggling soldier. His seed shot powerfully into the back of the asset's throat, with no warning and he was unprepared. Pierce hadn't warned him, just suddenly his hands were pulling painfully at his scalp and he let a strangled cry release from his mouth, his hips jutting without rhythm.

The solider squeezed his eyes shut, and did his best to hold it back but it was too much too fast. He jerked his head back, releasing Pierce before he had even stopped coming completely, coughing and gasping for air as he fell backwards onto his haunches. His vision was spotty from the lack of oxygen. Before he had completely caught his breath, he felt a hard back hand across his face, splitting the skin over his cheekbone. His face jerked with the impact, but he immediately locked his eyes back on Pierce, his chest heaving as his breathing returned to normal. He could feel the blood beginning to leak down his face, and saliva and come dripping off his chin, but he dared not wipe any of his away until Pierce gave him permission.

Pierce didn't look angry. He never did; it always just the way he carried himself, or a slight edge to his voice. His hits were always fast - like a serpent striking. Only a glimpse into the boiling evil that bubbled under the surface of his cool and collected exterior. "These pants are dry-clean only," he said, his voice straddling the line between sardonic and accusatory. He was zipping himself back up when a sudden flurry of gunfire from the other side of the heavily armored door; muffled by the barricade.

The soldier didn't move from his position, but all his muscles tensed up; waiting for his command. Pierce's face broke into a worried expression for just a moment before he clenched his jaw and lurched towards one of the pistols waiting one of the exam tables. He steadied it at the door as it swung open with a heavy creak.

Backlit against the hallway beside him, Pierce fired. The unmistakable sounds of a bullet hitting squarely against Vibranium and falling useless to the ground filled his chest with apprehension.  
Captain America had found him.


	8. Final Mission (Part Two)

This is an alternate turn of events in CATWS, with Captain American the gang getting away from the STRIKE team after the battle on the bridge. Steve has immediately gone looking for Bucky on his own, leaving Natasha, Sam, and Maria to fix the mess with Hydra/SHIELD. He busts in on the bank vault where Alexander Pierce and the Winter Soldier are.

Tumblr prompt: Hey my name is Christine and I was wondering if u'd write a fanfic for my cousin (she's kinda shy u'know?) She's my age and she kinda ships the whole Bucky!Whump, Abuse, hurt/comfort, the whole deal... so I was wondering if u could write a fic about Steve finding Bucky in a basement maybe the Bank Vault or Pierce's House, he's in a bad way and Steve kinda has to help him recover?

Okay, since I wasn't sure the requester wanted the sleazy Bucky/Alexander dubCon, I split this prompt into two parts. You can read the first one here, but this one can stand alone if you'd rather not: /works/2141487

Summary: Alexander Pierce is a horrible horrible person.

Alexander Pierce was panicking. You couldn't tell by looking at him, only the crease of his brow and the increase in his pulse gave any indication of such. But he knew what was coming, and he had to think fast. He was no match physically to the Star Spangled Man, but he had an idea where he could hit where it hurt.

You see, after the debacle on the bridge, Pierce did some digging. The Soldier had been passed to his control after the fall of the USSR, and he knew very little of the Asset's history before that; it had been, frankly, irrelevant. But it wasn't like the soldier to leave a mission before its completion, and it was highly unusual that Rogers had suddenly surrendered. Something was up, and it wasn't long before he found the complete file on the soldier. He was surprised to find out it was Sgt. Barnes, but it also put another ace up his sleeve.

When Steve Rogers came striding through the door, his shield at the ready and his blue eyes cold as ice, Pierce was already pointing his gun directly at the asset's temple.

The soldier didn't move, but his eyes did widen in surprise. His eyes flicked between Pierce at the strange man barging in, something registering deep within his mind somewhere. Something was very wrong, and his own heartbeat picked up in his chest.

Cap stopped dead in his tracks, though there was a pronounced vein of rage pulsing on his neck. The STRIKE team's unconscious bodies could be seen strewn around the hallways behind him, and his eyes leveled dead-set on Pierce. His bicep twitched, and Pierce could tell he was trying to determine if he could disarm him before the gun when off.

"Not even he could take a bullet to the temple," he said evenly, daring the captain to try. He was taking a gamble on this, it wasn't Captain America's style to put one over the many. But he knew the mythology of Captain American and Bucky Barnes as well as any; he had grown up reading the comics like most other boys his age.

Steve pursed his lips, a cold sweat beading on his brow. His eyes jerked over to the where the Winter Soldier was still on his haunches, looking... scared, actually. Maybe most people couldn't see it, but Steve had been in enough wars to recognize fear in the eyes of even the strongest of men. That was definitely fear.

"You're not going to get away with it," Steve said to Pierce, his own mind reeling; trying to figure out how to get this situation under control. He would prefer he not have to kill Pierce before he was forced to answer for his crimes, but he definitely wasn't going to let Bucky die at his hands. "We're onto Project Insight. You're not going to launch those hellicarriers.."

"We'll see," Pierce said, as if they were having the most casual conversation in the world. "But I think things will work out much better if you just turn yourself in. No one would blame you, you know. Actually, your image may even be enough to turn some of this around. You're Captain America - people are going to need someone to look up to after the threats are gone. To rally behind, to help them understand what's best..."

"You're more insane than I thought if you think I'd go along with Hydra," he sneered, his stomach turning at the thought.

"It was worth a try," Pierce said with a cruel smile. "Well, I guess we'll settle for just having you turn yourself in peacefully."

"Not going to happen."

"Oh?" Pierce's eyes flicked down to the soldier. "Soldier, on your knees, and hands above your head."

The man's tortured eyes flicked between the Captain and Pierce, unable to hide the confusion. But he did so as told, rolling off this haunches and took an execution pose in front of Pierce.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, the barrel pointed directly between his eyes.

It was torture for Steve to watch - it was all happening so fast, and he had to find some way to stop this. His eyes darted frantically around the bank vault, calculating. But then a voice - his voice...

"What have I done wrong?"

Both Pierce and Rogers were surprised, their eyes settling on the man, whose eyes were now naked with emotion. "Please, what have I done wrong?"

He had been a good soldier, doing whatever was asked of him for so long he couldn't have counted the years. He had been effective, dedicated, non-questioning. Even when his handlers made him do the shameful things outside the mission, he had performed as asked. And now he was staring at the barrel of his own gun, held by his own handler.

He was about to die.

He had never felt this kind of fear before. It wasn't like he hadn't been in potentially deadly situations, but he never questions his ability. He craved the approval of his handlers.

It wasn't like he expected much. He wasn't expecting a medal, a handshake, or even a pat on the back. All he usually got was a simple smile and nod; just that symbol of a job well done. And that usually enough.

But this was too much. There was something going on, and his brain in all its shattered and broken confusion was trying desperately to fit as many puzzle pieces together in the seconds he probably had left to live.

"Nothing, Soldier. You've been a gift to mankind. But after tomorrow, you're not needed anymore. And unless the Captain here walks me out of here unharmed, there's nothing else I can do."

A tear fell onto the soldier's gunpowder stained cheek, be otherwise showed no emotion other than a quick, pleading look to Steve, before his jaw fell open, inches away from the gun barrel.

It was all the convincing (and hesitation) he needed. Steve launched his shield directly at Pierce's hand, instantly breaking his wrist and causing the gun to hit the ground and fire. The stray bullet hit Bucky right above the knee, causing the man to scream and double over.

Before Pierce could react, Steve was on him. One well-placed kick to the head was enough to take the older man out, and he crumbled, unconscious, onto the ground. "Natasha, I need you here NOW. I'm sending you my coordinates..."

Steve's orders into his wrist-communicator were cut off by the sudden, explosive, echoing sound of a gun going off.

Steve spun around to see Bucky on his feet, blood pouring freely from his blown-out knee, the smoking gun in his hand. Pierce was dead on the floor, the fatal shot squarely between his eyes. Bucky dropped the gun beside him and took a shaky step back and locked eyes with Steve.

"Bucky..." Steve's face went pale; that wasn't the outcome he wanted, but he couldn't blame his friend. Now not. Not with that look he was giving him.

The soldier was still for a few minutes, his chest heaving from adrenaline. His eyes never left Steve's eyes, but Steve could see the torment reflected back at him. "...Steve?"

His voice was quiet. Scared. Uncertain. Barely even audible in large, echoing chamber.

Steve's face contorted in emotion. "Yeah, Bucky," he said, lowering his shield. He wanted to run to him; to wrap his arms around him and pull him close; but he restrained himself. He didn't want to make Bucky feel like a cornered animal; because he knew that's exactly what he was.

Bucky's knees went weak, the pain finally getting to him and he crumbled to the floor, catching himself with his metal arm and sliding into a sitting position.

Steve was at his side immediately, looking around for something to tie around his leg. "Hey, Buddy, hang on," Steve said to him, quickly unbuckling his own belt and trying it around his leg like a tourniquet. Bucky barely flinched, his shell-shocked expression staying on Steve. Nothing made sense to him, but this man...Steve... was helping him? It was an alien feeling to the soldier, and every time a few of the puzzle pieces came together in his head, they would break again. His eyes flicked over to Pierce's dead body and a sudden wave of guilt and sadness brimmed over, and he began to sob.

"Hey..." Steve looked up from his first aid, surprised. He had never seen Bucky cry, not even when they were kids. He got close a few times, but he would always run and lock himself in the bathroom until he could regain his composure. But this was different, he was a raw nerve. His shoulders shuddered with the force of it and he leaned into Steve.

Steve was stunned, but of course he wasn't going to pull away. He folded Bucky into his arms and let the man bury his face into his chest. They were both shaking; and Steve positioned himself onto the floor and just held Bucky, waiting for Natasha or Sam to hone in the coordinates he sent.

When Bucky finally stilled a bit, Steve cupped his face and tilted it up to look at him. "Hey, it's okay," he said softly to him, giving him a smile. He used the back of his gloves to wipe his eyes, and the blood and filth off his chin from earlier with a wince. He was barely holding back tears of his own, but he summoned every ounce of his control to be strong for his friend. "You're free now, Bucky. You can come home."

"Home?" He didn't have a home. He hadn't had a home for as long as he could remember. Weapons didn't have homes, they had storage lockers.

"Yeah, Bucky. Home."


End file.
